On Cliche
by TheShoelessOne
Summary: John/Sherlock. You can't die, don't be so predictable.


It's a blur as they load John into the back of the ambulance, and it's only some quick maneuvering on Lestrade's part that gets Sherlock in the same vehicle and not left behind to sit through questioning and first-aid and other nonsense. Sherlock reminds himself to thank Lestrade later.

"Sherlock," says a weak voice at his knees.

"Try not to let him talk," one of the paramedics says, trying to pull something from Sherlock's upper arm. He doesn't notice the bleeding, everything in the world is focused on John Watson.

He's no doctor, but he knows the angles a human body should make, and those it shouldn't. John Watson is bent too many times in his lower half, and the analytical part of his brain says that the doctor will never walk again. He deletes it promptly.

"Sherlock," the voice insists. It nearly doesn't register as John's it's so unlike him. Cold and weak, the voice of someone lost. Bloody fingertips grasp at thin air, and before Sherlock can take them, a paramedic is bandaging them. "You all right?"

"John, don't struggle," Sherlock insists. "Don't be so predictable, they're trying to save your life."

When John laughs, it's wet and hard.

"Sherlock bloody Holmes. Can't get a word in."

"We aren't in a cinema, you don't have to fight for your dying words," Sherlock says, though it's not as jovial as he had meant it.

"Sher-" John begins but is interrupted by the attentions of the paramedics. There's dust in his hair, turning it even grayer. He sighs in exasperation, bandaged hand lying useless on his chest. They plug him full of fluids, get a monitor on him, give him the standard claptrap they're all taught in ambulance school.

"If you're quite done," Sherlock all but shouts, and their noise drops considerably in shock.

"Just trying to save my life," John parrots, smiling. There's blood on his face, on his lips.

"You're not going to die," Sherlock says as if his word were law. "It would be banal."

"Dull," John bites. His eyes wobble for a moment, then come back into intense focus. "Sherlock."

"You're not going to die saving my life, John," Sherlock growls, beating back death with his teeth bared. "That's too _easy_."

"Your go next time, then," John replies.

He closes his eyes for a long time, and Sherlock honestly squirms in his seat as the worry finally sets into his gut. When John opens his eyes again, he's made a decision. He's gone so pale, how much blood had he left at the scene? Could he feel every bend in his legs? He looks so cold, and suddenly, horribly small. But his eyes are bright and focused, locked irrevocably on Sherlock's.

"I love you," John says, just as easy as that.

It hits Sherlock in the chest like a truck at full charge, almost does more damage than Moriarty's bomb. He takes the shock, can hardly process it, remembers that he has to breathe.

And then, despite all the jabs and the gnashing of teeth, Sherlock's eyes feel the hot prick of sadness they hadn't felt in years. He blinks in place of words, and two wet trails make their way down his face. Real, honest tears, and he hasn't the faintest clue why. There's something caught somewhere in his chest that he won't let free.

His jaw waggles. "I..."

He wants to say _I love you, too_, but he doesn't. Just splays his hand over John's heart, palm hot on John's cold skin.

"Sherlock, are you _crying?_"

He doesn't say anything, which betrays everything.

John smiles full and wide, and his eyes close. "Dull."

John Watson has finally stabilized when they pull him from the ambulance, and Sherlock Holmes doesn't leave the stretcher's side even as it careens through crowded halls. It takes three orderlies to restrain the tall, gangly, shouting man from barging into surgery alongside the gurney.

And when John finally opens his eyes nearly a day later, Sherlock covers the man's face in kisses. The last thing in his mind is how hackneyed the whole thing looks.

* * *

AN: hoo, the shortest one yet, but I had an idea just before bed and I had to get it down. And I guess it's just the way I write that anything even remotely angsty ends up with a comedic twist. I tried to do angst, I really did, but I suppose I just can't write it seriously. AH WELL, hope it entertains anyway! Thanks for reading, leave some love and, above all, STAY AWESOME!


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